Fairweather Friend
by WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Angst. Castiel's powers are bound; he is purposeless, useless. But there is one thing he can still do for the Winchesters - for Dean. Not slash; warnings for blasphemy, suicide.


**My Fairweather Friend**

**Dang, this is short. And sad. I'll learn to write happy stories eventually, I swear.**

**Disclaimer; I do not own Supernatural, nor any of the characters, ideas, concepts, or other materials within.**

**Warnings for blasphemy, suicide.**

**If anyone's interested, I was thinking of Supernatural and listening to Emilie Autumn when a few lyrics inspired this fic.**

* * *

_The one thing that I'm sure about _

_Is that you won't be anywhere around me when I Fall_

_I like to think that I wouldn't die for you_

_But you know I would_

_'Cause that's the fool I am_

_And that's the rule you bend - _

_Absent in the end - _

_Love you only bend -_

_Wounds you'll never mend -_

_My fairweather friend._

Emilie Autumn, 'My Fairweather Friend'.

**...It sort of sums up a lot of Cas/Dean interactions well, I think.**

**I know Dean cares, in his own emotionally-inept way, but seriously, he's a bastard to Castiel sometimes.**

**Also, listen to 'Castiel's Lament' on youtube. It's **_**heartbreaking. **_**I alternated listening to the two on loop while writing this.**

* * *

An angel aligned with neither Heaven nor Hell is a lonely thing; purposeless, isolated from all Grace and familiarity. Castiel had expected as much.

He had not expected the affection and true devotion he would develop for his human charge, the Righteous Man, nor to a lesser extent Sam Winchester. There was no true chance of either permanently dying - both Heaven and Hell needed them for the Apocalypse - but for their safety he would gladly sacrifice himself, and he knew it; he would die for them, these flawed, mortal humans. The existence of an angel, extinguished for the happiness of brief mortal life...

Castiel wished he could say, "They would do the same for me". But he couldn't.

Not that he would _want _either to die for him, understand. But some measure of affection, or even respect - however small - would be appreciated. For those humans he had fallen from Grace, become hunted by his brothers Above and Below, and consigned himself to the possibility of a future, mortal existence. He _had _risked his life for them on countless occasions, had lowered himself to the role of transportation despite his weakening Grace. Castiel arrived on their prayer - like the lapdog so many angels named him - and took commands from imperfect beings, as though their authority was that of Father.

Sometimes, to be quite honest, he disgusted himself.

The thing is - angels are, above all else, creatures of Love. They are soldiers, of course, made for war, but also made to worship and Love their Father. And in the vacuum of God's absence, everyone needed something to Love. The lesser angels often unconsciously transferred that Love to their commanders and the archangels. Lucifer loved himself, and the vision of the future Paradise he meant to create. And Castiel had put his Love into Dean.

But this was a bitter Love, twisting as the archangels' Love for Father had twisted. Dean was more like to rail at Castiel than recognize his worth, his contributions, and it _hurt. _He told himself that Dean was flawed, and had only a short human's life of experiences to draw upon - a damaged, dark past that did not contribute well to either trust or friendship. The occasional callous comment could surely be expected.

But for it to occur _again _and _again_ and _again..._

Castiel was, in the end, a tool. He should be accustomed to this - he was a soldier, after all - but somehow it _stung. _He had thought humans were different... that Dean and Sam...

...In the end, though, it didn't matter. It didn't matter if Dean Loved him or hated; Castiel was, forever and always, his.

* * *

Castiel was searching for God above Mexico when he heard the prayer. Even if there had been humans who prayed directly to him aside from the Winchesters, Dean's irreverent anger was unmistakeable.

_"Oh Cas, who, uh, art flying around on some stupid fucking quest for a dead guy - oh, just get your ass here, okay? We're in Maryland, uh... Lexington Hotel, Room 114 on 4th street in Hamilton... Hurry up, would ya?"_

Castiel sighed, turned his wings, and flew.

He took only an instant by human perception, but Dean was tapping his foot impatiently nonetheless when Cas arrived. "Alright," Dean began, without preemption. "About a dozen demons took Sam. He's being held a few blocks away; the devil's probably been summoned already, which means we need to be there, like, _yesterday."_

"I am not strong enough for time travel, Dean."

_Because I fell for you._

"It's a saying Cas!" Dean snapped. "Let's go."

"Dean, I - "

"_Now, _Cas. Whatever you were doing can't be as important as this. He's that bastard's vessel - We _can't _let him get Sammy."

Castiel had a feeling Dean's concern had less to do with the apocalypse then implied - but how could he refuse?

So he was unceremoniously shepherded into a car -

_('How was that?' _

_'ah... confining?')_

_- _and sat during the agonizingly slow minutes as a tense Dean drove them through whipping rain, pulling to a stop in front of a stereotypical demon-hideout; a decrepit warehouse, dark and gloomy and secluded, but with the dim flicker of lights inside that hinted at some malevolent presence.

It started out normally enough. They entered; Dean killed two demons with a thrust of The Knife through their stomachs, and Castiel took another with a light touch on the women's forehead. White light blazed forth as another of Hell's servants was extinguished -

And then, suddenly, there was a small _horde_ of demons, pouring in from every side, thrusting at the two with dark powers and bludgeoning with blunted weapons. Dean's knife fell to the ground with a clatter as the man was flung against the wall, and even Castiel had a hard time resisting, his weakened powers no more than slowing the effect as he was dragged, achingly, by the demon's irresistable forces.

Castiel found his back to a wall, panting harshly, a streak of blood dripping from his nose.

The demons ignored Dean, their eyes glistening a uniform inky black as they cloistered about the fallen angel.

"Take him to our Father," one commanded. "The younger Winchester may have escaped, but he can have this one."

Two large demons grinned savagely, grabbing Castiel's arms, and he was pulled -

He meant to escape - even in his current state Castiel was a match for two demons - except they set him down right before Lucifer.

Castiel closed his eyes in defeat.

So Sam had escaped; Dean would likely manage to do the same, or else the demons would kill him and the angels would just bring him back, so nothing mattered.

And he was in front of Lucifer.

A sigh. "Castiel," spoke the devil. "What a delightful surprise."

Castiel was silent.

"I think I know just what to do with you."

* * *

_Two Weeks Later: Singer's Auto_

"Dean, face it; he's dead."

"Says who? The demons could be holding him still - torturing him -" Dean's face tightened at the thought " - or... something. We didn't _see _him die."

"You said they were taking him to _Lucifer, _Dean. You really think he made it out of that alive?"

"We're _not _giving up on him, Sammy. He - "

_Thud._

The two froze.

Bobby looked up from his chair; his hand slipped under the cushion, and came up holding a handgun. Dean pulled out his knife, and Sam went for the holy water. Rising, they approached the door. Dean reached out, gripped the handle, and flung open the door.

The knife slipped from his hand.

"Cas!"

The blood-soaked angel stared up at him, mouth agape, eyes clouded and unseeing -

Dean pulled him up; he was nearly startled into dropping Castiel when the angel let out a hoarse cry.

"Sam, help me," he barked.

Castiel was dragged to the couch, but after that, things became more... difficult.

Simply put, he didn't seem injured.

He was covered in blood, of course; soaked in it, actually, from head to foot. There wasn't an inch of unbloodied skin or clothing. But with that wiped away no wounds were found, and yet the angel moaned and writhed as though in agony.

They stripped off the bloody clothing, and wiped his skin partly-clear with Holy Water. Past that, there seemed to be nothing to do but wait.

And wait they did, for a night and a day; and it was only then that Castiel abruptly jerked his head around, with a shaky exhale that seemed half a sob.

"Cas?"

Dean hadn't let up the vigil an instant; he was immediately by Castiel's side at the couch, and in the kitchen Bobby and Sam rose to follow him.

Castiel blinked against the harsh lights. "Dean?'

"Cas, what happened? Where were you - what's wrong?"

Castiel's chest convulsed; he took a deep, shaky breath. "It's gone."

"What? What's gone?"

"All of it - Everything - " Castiel's eyes clenched shut. "My wings - my powers - he bound me. _All of it."_

Dean jerked back. "No - he can't - "

"He _did."_

* * *

The shock wore off enough for Castiel to walk again by the next day. Dean promised that his powers would be returned, but how? There was no plan, nor a way _to _plan for something impossible to accomplish. During the listless days at Singer's auto, more unpleasant truths became known, too.

Castiel he was leafing distractedly through an old work on exorcisms one day when he gasped, sharply, at a sudden pain in his finger. When he looked down at it, baffled, he found that he had somehow cut through his skin with the _paper _edge of one of Bobby's books. He watched red blood welling toward the skin's surface, feeling numb.

He looked up. Dean was looking at him, lips tight. The hunter turned his head away.

Castiel got up and went for a walk.

* * *

"You don't have any mojo left, Cas?" Dean asked another time, suddenly.

"No, Dean."

"None at all?"

"No."

"I mean... not enough to exorcise demons - sense them - anything?"

"No."

"...Oh."

Castiel felt almost guilty.

"Dean, I..."

"It's fine, Cas."

It wasn't.

* * *

Days turned to weeks, and Castiel perceived, very suddenly, that they had no idea what to do with him.

"He's useless like this," he heard Dean hiss one day. "What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"We can't just leave him," Sam said.

"In case you've forgotten, there's an _Apocalypse _going on," Bobby pointed out testily. "We don't exactly have the luxury of angel-sitting, either."

"We could make him a hunter," Dean tried, doubtfully.

"Good lord, really?" Bobby asked. "Idjit. He'd get slaughtered. His first instinct when he sees a knife coming is to let it _go through his fucking chest."_

"He's still immortal."

"But has a physical got a papercut just yesterday, remember? He won't _die_ by physical injury, but it will still incapacitate him for a good while. Hunting's the last thing he needs to try."

"What are we supposed to do? Dump him on the street?"

There was a damning silence. "Dean," Sam said finally, "Eventually I'm sure we'll find some way to return his Grace, but..."

"But what?"

Castiel didn't want to hear any more; he decided to walk around the yard. Again. He could kill a few more hours that way.

So Castiel wandered the property like a corpse, blank and hollow. Dean had assured him that they would find a way to regain his powers, but he didn't understand; _none _of them understood.

Castiel's Grace hadn't been ripped out; he was _bound_, permanently. Cursed with immortality - still an angel, but powerless. His wings were heavy on his back, but invisible to even his eye, and he could not so much as twitch them; they dragged behind the broken angel desolately, a constant weight of failure.

He was cut off from Heaven, from God, truly and forever.

He could not _see, _he could not _speak, _could not hear or feel or even think - not _really, _not _truly, _not as an angel should see or think or feel.

Castiel had known the feel of the universe on his fingertips, had flown in stars and rested in black holes and winged toward the ends of nebulas and galaxies pondering the wonders of his Father's work; and now he was confined to mortal earth, to see with mortal eyes. Now he was condemned to a South Dakota autoshop with young, faithless humans, and he knew the devil _laughed_.

He could never return to Heaven, he realized.

Oh, one day he would probably die; one of Lucifer's soldiers, or maybe one of Heaven's, would kill him truly, and he would die. But he would die as an angel, and everything he was would vanish. Or perhaps they would decide this dismal existence was the worst punishment, and he would be sentenced to walk the earth until the End, when the planet had crumbled to dust and debris he would float, immortal but helpless, through the drifting vastness of space until madness seized him. And even then, still he would drift...

Before there had at least been a _chance, _a dim hope of redemption if he could find Father, the possibility as an angel to one day go home - but now he would never again know Heaven's light.

That day, an angel wept.

He knew what had to be done.

* * *

"Dean."

"Cas?" Dean looked up from the newspaper. From the twitching of his fingers, Castiel knew Dean had found a possible case, and was eager to leave.

Only Castiel's presence was stopping him.

Castiel was blunt. "I have found knowledge of a seal to stop you from being used as a vessel."

_"What?" _Dean shot up. "How? What is it?"

"First, you should be aware it will not work on Sam." Dean deflated, but only slightly. "You must carve this sigil into your chest, on a full moon - " he handed over a paper with the sigil drawn on it "Outside, under the moonlight. This should be chanted by Bobby." Another paper.

Dean took it, then frowned. "This is Enochian, Cas."

"Yes."

"You would be the better person to read this."

"An angel should not be present during the ritual," Castiel said, a lie and a sin.

"...Alright." Dean scrutinized him carefully; too carefully. "...No catch?"

"No." _Sinner, sinner, sinner..._

There was a long, tense moment. Castiel was half-certain Dean would call him on the lie; he could always tell when Castiel lied. But, finally, the man nodded. "Alright." A slow, heavy smile rose. "You... did good, Cas." Dean exhaled, slowly. "Real good."

Dean's smile looked forced, painful.

Castiel said nothing.

* * *

_The life of an angel, freely given, bound under the light of the moon..._

The sun was setting, and the moon rising. Castiel retreated to the dusty attic with a knife - _his _knife, an angel's blade.

With careful and measured movements he drew blood from his arms, the skin flaring with untarnished Grace as blood poured into the waiting bowl. He dipped his fingers into the bowl and began to draw on the dusty floor, alone.

Castiel waited there for long, silent minutes, breathing slowly, watching the fading sunlight withdraw over the sigils on the floor. He knew what he was waiting for; Dean. For Dean to realize that something was wrong; for Dean to burst through and stop him, to protest that this wasn't the way, that Castiel was worth more than this, that they could find other ways, that Castiel _couldn't die..._

The door was shut, and the house was silent. The moon had risen, and, distantly, he heard the low chanting of Enochian outside.

The knife plunged in.

Outside a brilliant light lit up the house, flaring toward the Heavens, and in Singer's attic ashen wingprints stained the floor, an immortal testament to bitter Love.

* * *

_ It's a sunny day in Heaven,_

_ And no one is around to open the Gates..._

_ And I'm waiting for you,_

_ My fairweather friend,_

_ Absent in the end..._

-Emilie Autumn, 'My Fairweather Friend'


End file.
